


He Couldn’t Love Him

by inkwells_writing



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, arthur is so in love and so insecure lol, but from one persons pov lol, its almost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 15:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwells_writing/pseuds/inkwells_writing
Summary: England has been in love with America for a long time, and it’s starting to get difficult to hide his feelings. And yet, when he tries to avoid the man, of course he ends up on England’s door step in the rain.





	He Couldn’t Love Him

England was in love. Plain and simple. He accepted it easily, it was hard to argue when you were looking at America.

_ I mean really, _ Arthur thought,  _ who wouldn’t be in love with America? _

He was a perfect person. Anyone could fall in love with him- him and his charming personality, his horribly good jokes, his looks, his unending determination to keep others safe, his  _ ass- _

Yes, both his looks and his personality were amazing.

Even without his never-diminishing supply of good personality, Arthur would still have fallen in love with the man. 

Not for any reason other than how nice and good he was to Arthur. Sure, he would mock Arthur with the rest of the countries, but he knew when to stop. He would change the topic right before they would hit too close to home. England didn’t know if he did so intentionally or just because he got bored of the conversation, but either way, he was touched by it. 

And that was why he couldn’t be around Alfred anymore. 

Sure, Arthur was an amazing actor. He was the country that gave the world  _ the  _ bard. He could bluff his way out of any situation with ease. He could pretend day after day that the other counties comments really didn’t bother him. Those were all easy.

He lied to America for a long time about his feelings too. But after nearly a century of lying, he was tired.

He was starting to be tempted by his dreams of America  _ returning _ his feelings. Them, spending all their holidays and off time calling each other, visiting each other, hell, Arthur had started to romanticize the idea of  _ texting _ America when he could. 

So, avoiding America was the best option. 

The safest option. 

But America, it seems, was starting to notice.

Arthur always admired that when America wanted to read the room, when he wanted to pay attention, he could do so with amazing precision. Until such things were focused on him. 

Granted, Arthur was being fairly blatant about it. 

They, in more recent years (starting after the 30’s), would go to lunch together at least once a world meeting. But now, Arthur had been brushing him off. 

“Sorry, I’ve got plans with Japan already.”

“I’m flying back early, and I can’t miss my flight. You know how long your airports take, America.”

“My brother insists I join him for dinner tonight, would you like to be the one to tell him I’m ditching him?”

“I’m busy, America, leave me alone.”

So perhaps he had been getting more and more rude with his excuses. Sometimes, he’d stop giving excuses and just say he wasn’t in the mood to “hang out.” It was just easier. Seeing America’s hurt expression (the flushed cheeks, adorable pout, the flash of hurt in his eyes) always stung, but Arthur reasoned he was making most of it up anyways. He was simply over-analyzing. Hoping for something that wasn’t there. He was making it all up, trying to cling to a romance that could never happen.  _ Shouldn’t _ happen. 

But imagine his surprise when America turned up on his doorstep, in the middle of a storm, two days after a world meeting. 

England could do nothing but stare up at him in shock. 

America gave a shy smile and asked, “Can I come in? It’s real cold out here, dude.”

He nodded and stepped aside, and only when America brushed against him did his brain begin to process what was going on. 

“Yes, yes, hold on. Let me get you a towel. Do you have dry clothes?”

America nodded and lifted up his duffle bag. “Enough for a week. It alright if I stay here? I feel like we haven’t really hung out in a long time, and I have a week off break. I just felt like… like coming here.”

Arthur froze, halfway to the cabinet in his hallway when he heard that. America  _ wanted _ to visit? Did he enjoy England’s company?

No. 

No, that can’t be it. The flush on his cheeks Arthur had glimpsed was from the cold. The rain- the rain! America must be freezing. 

He quickly grabbed a towel out of the cabinet in the hallway and walked back to America, holding it out. “Yes, I suppose it’s alright if you stay here.”

_ What was he saying? A week, alone, with America. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid. How would be keep his feelings bottled up. It wouldn’t- he wouldn’t last. Idiot. _

But despite his disparaging words, the smile America gave him let him quickly forget his own worries. 

They spent the first two days fairly separate. Arthur didn’t have the week off, so he would leave America to his own devices during the day. He did leave notes of nice places to visit near his house by the city, hoping America wouldn’t be bored all day, but when he came home he had no idea if America took up his suggestions. The third day, a Saturday, Arthur had off. 

He woke up at eight o’clock instead of five-thirty, his normal weekday time, ready to eat cereal or something of the like, when he smelled something cooking.

He made his way downstairs, wary, to find America at the stove. 

In only his pajama pants. No shirt in sight.

Arthur almost swooned at the sight. 

He was barely able to compose himself as Alfred turned to look at him. The (shirtless) man in question smiled and gestured to the eggs and bacon on the stove, “Want some? I made a ton.”

Arthur could only nod and move towards his kettle. He swallowed thickly, hoping that America wouldn’t notice his blush. This week was going to be impossibly hard. 

He stared at the pot, ignoring America as he bustled around the kitchen. Something became stuck in Arthur’s throat at the domestic nature behind America’s movement, and he had to blink quickly to get rid of any  _ emotions _ he started to feel. 

But even with his rapid blinking, he couldn’t as easily wipe away the thoughts of this being normal. Of America in his kitchen, or him in America’s kitchen after a night together. Them, spending all their vacations at each other’s houses, cooking for one another. Well, Alfred cooking and Arthur baking.  _ Well, it’s my daydream. I can cook well in that if I choose. _ Arthur decided, before his thoughts started to wander, _ or maybe I’m not a bad cook, and the food always burns because Alfred starts to distract me by- _

_ No. I cannot keep doing this. _

Arthur sighed. Things would be so much easier if he just wasn’t in love with America. Hell, maybe if he told him, he could face the horrible rejection and finally move on.

That would be nice. 

But before he could cement a plan, the kettle whistled and Arthur was brought back to reality. He poured himself a cup and set a tea bag in it before walking over to the table where America was already eating. 

The man smiled at him, pointing to the food and saying, “I hope you like it. I wasn’t sure what to make but I know it’s your day off and I wanted to be nice.”

Despite the kindness behind America’s words, Arthur couldn’t help but frown. America notices and seemed offput, so Arthur had to ask, “Why did you cook me breakfast?”

Sensing the rude nature of his words, Arthur backtracked, “I mean, it’s my home. Really, I should be the one making breakfast. You’re my guest.”

America laughed, loud and boisterous. Arthur had to pretend to not adore the sound as America waved his hand in the air, “I’m really only a guest if you had invited me. I kinda just let myself in, you know? It’s the least I could do since you’re letting me stay.”

Arthur nodded, and before he could continue the conversation, America perked up. “Hey! I’ve got an idea. Let’s go to a bar tonight. It’s been awhile since we’ve gone out for drinks together.”

Skeptical, Arthur squinted at him, “You are willingly taking me to a bar? I thought you hate it when I get drunk.”

America snorted, “Then you just need to order only like, two beers or something like that. Just trust me, I’ll make sure you don’t get wasted.” 

And that was that, as Arthur really didn’t want to argue with him. Even though something about the situation seemed off, Arthur couldn’t deny that he wanted to spend time with America. A bar would have to do. Even if he got loose-lipped when he was drunk, he’d simply have to be careful. 

They spent the day seperate, England doing work (despite it being his day off, but what else was he going to do with his free time) and embroidery when he wanted a break from the computer screen, and America off… doing something in the spare room.

When it was around seven, Arthur sighed and left his office, knocking on America’s door and telling him they should head out. 

The beginning of their time in the bar was awkward, to say the least. Neither seemed to want to talk, but Arthur could sense a burning question at America’s lips, and he was sure America could tell how badly he wanted to spill his own secret.

But he couldn’t, so he made boring conversation about the World Meeting from their secluded booth in the corner. 

“Honestly, Francis can be extraordinarily unprofessional.”

America hummed, then frowned. Arthur stopped his small rant on how much he disliked France, wondering what was wrong. He asked America such, only for the man to sigh.

America squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and looked Arthur in the eyes as he asked, “How come you use France’s human name, but you don’t use mine?”

Arthur blinked, unsure of how to answer. Eventually the pause grew, the tension in the air rose, so he just started talking. He hated when things got awkward with America, “Well, I’ve known the arsehole for centuries. I hate him, but we’re still sort of friends, I suppose.”

America looked away, seemingly uncomfortable. “Is there something going on between you two? Gilbert hinted at it the last World Meeting and I was just-”

He stopped talking as Arthur began to laugh. England kept trying to talk but was sent further into laughter at the thought of him and Francis together. Honestly, it was absurd. 

“No, no. America, I promise you, the last time anything happened between me and Francis was probably the fifteenth century.” He paused, took a sip of beer, and amended, “No, wait. The fourteenth century. It was a dark time for me then.” 

When America stopped making eye contact with him, Arthur had to ask, “Why were you asking Gilbert if something was going on between me and that idiot?”

America coughed as he drank, and Arthur could only feel as though he had done something wrong. And yet, something in his gut was telling him to pursue this line of conversation. 

But America didn’t give him the chance as he laughed, “Have many beers have you had, England?”

He squinted down at the bottle in his hand, shrugged, and downed it. He set it to the side and answered, “That makes four.”

When a bartender walked over and set down two more beers, America moved both of them out of Arthur’s reach, “I think that’s enough for you, old man.”

He huffed, “I am in no way old, and you know it. You’re just extremely young.” He reached over the table to grab the bottle, taking a swig of it before pausing.

Well, okay, maybe he didn’t need another drink. But he wasn’t drunk by any means. Just tipsy and a little loose-lipped. 

But considering the secret he was trying to keep, that was probably a bad thing. 

America really was beautiful, his mind supplied. Terrible timing, but it spoke the truth nonetheless. Beautiful golden hair, pretty blue eyes, strong arms that he  _ knows _ are strong as hell, and an ass that just does not-

“So, England. Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“Don’t get, like, mad at me or anything.”

Arthur sighed, “Sure, sure, alright.”

Alfred frowned, “I was just wondering why it feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

_ Because it hurts too much to see you every day when I know you’d never feel the same way about me as I do you. _

No, he could never say that. It’s better to keep lying. At least he wasn’t drunk enough to mess that up.

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” Arthur said. Denial is truly the perfect lie.

Alfred frowned, “You have been. Every lunch meeting you said we could go on you cancelled, every time I try and talk to you about anything other than some policy or plan you decide talking to France or Japan or whoever is much more pressing. I once saw you run out of a room after making eye contact with me.” Alfred sighed and placed his head in his hands, hiding his hurt expression, “I just want to know what I did wrong so I can fix it.”

Arthur fidgeted in his seat, now unsure of how to fix the situation. One thing he knew for sure, he couldn’t have Alfred blaming himself, “You did nothing wrong. I’m just an idiot.”

Alfred furrowed his brow and looked up, “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Denial could still work-

“I know I can be dense sometimes but I’m not stupid, Arthur, what’s wrong.” Alfred said, still frowning.

And that puppy-like expression and the way his human name sounded on Alfred’s lips struck something deep within him. Something that decided, well, if Alfred hated him forever, he could live with that. It would be better to be honest than to make up some bullshit excuse.

“I’m fairly certain I’m in love with you.”

The look on Alfred’s face was unreadable, and it snapped Arthur back into reality. He shouldn’t have said anything. “I mean, I’ve been avoiding you because I know there’s no chance of you ever returning the sentiment, so I thought it would be easier to distance myself from you so I could try and get rid of these feelings. Please don’t hate me. You know what? I’m drunk. You just heard the ramblings of a drunk man who doesn’t know what he’s saying. Feel free to make fun of me in the morning, and I’ll apologize for the lies I just spoke, now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to find a ride home so I can get smashed there and-” 

Arthur was cut off as he began to slide out of the booth. America’s arm had shot out to grab his, his expression was still unreadable. Arthur began to ask what he was doing when America’s other hand came up to the collar of his jacket and yanked him right next to his face.

Arthur flinched eyes closing as he expected to get hit, when something warm pressed firmly against his lips. His eyes shot open, to see Alfred’s face impossibly close to his. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that  _ America  _ was kissing  _ him _ , and as soon as he fully processed that fact, it was too late to kiss him back because Alfred was pulling away and his eyes were open again and Arthur was all too aware of how red his face was.

Alfred’s eyes were looking into his, and he seemed flustered and panicked as he rambled, “That probably wasn’t the right move but you just started talking about how you didn’t love me and I really didn’t like hearing that so I wanted to get you to stop because it hurt to hear that and honestly I just really, really hope do you love me because I feel the same- but about you, obviously- and, well, I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while, and-”

Arthur leaned in again, kissing Alfred. The man was as an amazing kisser as he was strong and hot. Okay, maybe Arthur was a little more than tispy if his thoughts were anything to go by. 

But Alfred was kissing him back, so it was okay. This time, Arthur pulled away, out of breath but smiling all the while. 

“You weren’t lying, right? This isn’t some big joke you and everyone else has set up to pull on me? Because Francis is the only know who-”

“Say my name, please.” America’s voice was hoarse, and Arthur felt his face flush. He looked around at the other patron in the bar and decided this was not the place they should spend anymore time in- talking or otherwise. 

“Come on, let’s get back home- to my house.” Arthur stumbled over his words as he grabbed Alfred’s hand, leading him outside. “I don’t want to- to talk in here anymore.” 

Alfred muttered an agreement and they quickly waved down a taxi and slid inside, still holding hands. 

They didn’t speak while in the car, but Arthur could feel Alfred’s gaze on him the entire time. It kept the blush on his face, to say the least.

When they arrived at Arthur’s house, they hurried inside, and as soon as the door shut behind Alfred, Arthur turned to him. 

Alfred was close to him. They weren’t touching anywhere except where their hands met, and Arthur took a deep breath as he looked into Alfred’s beautiful and blue eyes, “I love you, Alfred.”

And before Arthur could overthink his words, Alfred was pulling him against his chest, fiercely kissing him for all he was worth. Arthur was pleased to note that Alfred’s chest was as rock solid as he’d hoped. 

Alfred dragged himself away from the kiss, and Arthur felt the wall pressing into his back. He has no idea when that happened. 

Alfred was breathing heavily, eyes half opened as he whispered, “I’m so fucking in love with you, Arthur.” And he dragged a panting Arthur back into the kiss, one hand on the small of his back and the other still clasped together with Arthur’s.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for readnig!! comments are the best ever and kudos are appreciated!! you can send requests for future fics to my tumblr @inkwells-writing !!


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